


take my hand, fall into step

by cuddlebros



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, Other, Romantic Friendship, Slow Dancing, The Winter Palace (Dragon Age), dance lessons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2016-09-28
Packaged: 2018-08-17 12:10:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8143534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuddlebros/pseuds/cuddlebros
Summary: "I won’t even make it to Halamshiral at this point—imagine that! ‘Herald of Andraste, slain by own advisor because they couldn’t perform a perfect Chasse, whatever it is'."If Lace Harding had only one pupil before Halamshiral, fit into her busy schedule.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to keep the Adaar pretty neutral, but there is definitely quite a bit of backstory that I added that is particular to one of my Adaar's--I hope it won't be a problem, but I can understand if it is!
> 
> There is hinted Bull/Dorian, but I suppose it could also be seen as a platonic thing!
> 
> In this fic, Adaar uses they/them.

Adaar lets their shoulders slump as soon as they escape Josephine's office. Discussions with the ambassador were tough enough for the farm-born Vashoth before, and tougher now the air hangs laden with the subject of Halamshiral.

The whole business makes their horns itch.

They catch Dorian’s eye as he makes his way into the main hall, and he falls into step beside them without a word. The two of them run from the top of the steps to the doors of the Herald’s Rest, Adaar shaking the water from her hair like a mabari as soon as they step inside.

Less people mill around once the sun starts to set behind the main tower, and the few left are sheltering from steady, freezing drizzle. It seems like this is where everyone has retired to, the tavern heaving heavier than usual with people, noise, and life. There’s no space in front of the fire, with half of the Chargers are jostling for pole position. There’s almost certainly a story behind why they’ve all been out in the rain, but Adaar isn’t sure if they’re up to hearing it.

Dorian leaves their side with a nod, sharp tongue bothering Cabot before the words even leave his mouth. They know that he’ll grab them a glass of whatever he’s drinking, though whether they’ll be around to drink it, they have no idea.

There’s almost nowhere to sit, but Adaar spots Harding— _Lace_ —sitting with the other half of the Chargers and catches her eye above the hubbub. She smiles, as she always does. Adaar melts, as they always do. They pull the puddle of themselves towards the empty seat Harding had motioned to and fall gracelessly into it.

A cheer goes out across the table as another round of drinks are served, but Adaar adds little more than a sigh to it. Dorian has settled down next to Bull in a space that wasn’t there a minute before. He slides a tall glass of wine over to them with a look of concern. Adaar’s placating smile is worrying, but Bull distracts him before he can make them spill.

Lace's hawk eye spots it though, and she nudges the Herald almost immediately. “Not feeling the spirit today, Your Worship? You normally look a lot more excited the evening before an excursion.”

“Not tonight, Lace. I'v been stuck indoors all day getting etiquette drilled into my head. Apparently if I don’t bow to certain people then I'll be challenged to a duel, and _then_ Josephine says I’m not allowed to duel. And don’t get me started on the _dancing_ ,” they shudder. They take a long, long drink of wine, and feel none the better for it when they place the glass back on the bench.

“What’s wrong with dancing? Anyone can dance!”

Adaar snorts.

“You have clearly not tried to dance with me. Shokrokar always said I would grow into these limbs, but they still don’t do what I want. I’ve been through 5 different instructors in the last month, and Josephine’s losing patience. I won’t even make it to Halamshiral at this point—imagine that! ‘ _Herald of Andraste, slain by own advisor because they couldn’t perform a perfect_ Chasse _, whatever it is,_ ’” they say, nodding to a passing waitress for another glass.

Harding places a consoling hand on the back of Adaar’s back, rubbing small circles with her thumb. Adaar relaxes into it.

“You’ll work it out, Your Worship. You’re resourceful.”

“That, I definitely am. Wanna throw berries at Bull until he realises it’s us?”

“ _Way_ ahead of you,” Harding says, grinning as she produces a bowl of dried red berries from seemingly nowhere.

* * *

They’ve been trekking for days. The Hinterlands are forgiving, but only to a point, and their entire group is flagging by the time they see the familiar silhouette of the forward camp. Adaar sees the light return to their friends eyes, and can’t begrudge the thrum of joy at the straightening of their posture at the proximity of temporary home.

Adaar holds on to the promise of resting their feet and breaking bread with their friends, and uses it to pull themself the last few miles.

They say little, even when they are seated firmly in front of the fire, warming their toes with stomach full and hands warm. While Varric pulls words out of the chill night air and spins them into outlandish tales, they’re blinding themselves staring into the white heat of the campfire. Next to them, Dorian and Bull listen with a healthy mix of interest and skepticism.

They feel safe here, even in the company of humans who might have spit at their feet— _dirty oxman_ —or their face— _mass murderer, assassin of The Divine_ —had they not been lauded as their saviour. _Herald of Andraste_. They aren’t sure which words feel worse rolling on their tongue.

No one here wants them dead at the moment, and they think that maybe this is how safety feels.

“You’re thinking too much over there, Your Quizziness. Let your handsome wordsmith tell you about the time that Hawke managed to get bounties on half of our heads at this Orlesian asshole’s wine tasting party—because let me tell you, the _things_ that guy could get up to in a room full of nobles armed with only a couple of grapes…”

Adaar allows themselves to fall into the story, until the fire burns low and Dorian has to push them to their tent before they fall asleep where they sit.

* * *

Their obligations find them again in the morning. It’s low light, thick clouds covering a struggling sun, and Adaar wanders to the stream just for something to do. No one else is around—no one in this camp rises before the farmers.

No one except for Lace.

Everything about this morning is regular, but time tempers it slightly. They can see their two lives overlapping here, snapshots of the time _before_.

This hour was their favourite when they were with the Valo-Kas. It was the perfect time to sneak tidbits of Ataashi’s breakfast (she always chased them away with mutters of “sneaky wretch”, but ‘Taashi never really seemed to mind).

They could watch their family rise and greet the day and count every one of them safe. Now they watch Lace twist her hair into braids with practiced ease, thanking the Maker that those dextrous, calloused fingers are on their side.

She sits atop one of the rocks next to the stream, staring away from the farms and up into the mountains. They sit beside her, silent and heavy.

Next to them sits a small ration pack, and it’s not ‘Taashi’s sour bread or stewed ram, but the little dry crackers that Harding slides towards them taste so much better than usual. Adaar munches on them slowly until their companions arms drop. The two of them share the remaining pack as the world wakes up behind them—farmers rousing cows, birds beginning their unholy cacophony, scouts changing shifts.

“You’re still not saying much, Your Worship. It’s just us now. You want to share?”

“I am transparent as always, I see,” they smile. “I’m just… thinking about the days to come, I suppose.”

“Ah, but your worship! The Hinterlands aren’t that bad! Less undead than the Fallow Mire, more sun than the Storm Coast—and only a smattering of red templars around! I’ve got to brief you about those later, by the way.”

Thankfully, she manages to raise a chuckle from the flagging herald. “No, the Hinterlands are fine. More than fine, I suppose; they’re so similar to home that it’s always a pleasure to be here. When people aren’t trying to run me through, I mean.”

“So, it’s not the scenery, nor the friendly locals,” Harding teases, nudging Adaar lightly. “What _is_ on your mind?”

They release another heaving sigh. Adaar can hear the stirrings of the camp behind them, stands and turns to watch the beginnings of the working day, and stretches their limbs before offering a hand to help Harding to her feet. For a while, they watch the camp wake.

“The Winter Palace.”

The resignation in Adaar’s voice elicits a twinge of sympathy from their lead scout. There was no way she could know quite the extent of stress and pressure weighing on those broad shoulders, but she can imagine why the impending ball is a source of distress for the Vashoth.

Adaar never fussed about treks across the marshes, seemed positively at home traipsing through the desert, and managed to smile whenever battle found them elsewhere (or so Harding assumed, extrapolating from the few times she’d witnessed them firsthand). But from the little information Leliana had disclosed, The Game will be a battle of a kind Adaar has no prior experience with—and there is little worse than an unknown enemy.

The two of them drag their feet as they head back for breakfast, Adaar indulging in the opportunity to finally let loose the stress that has been held close to them for weeks.

“This will be our last excursion before the ball, and nothing seems to be falling into place like it should. I don’t even know what to _do_ at a ball! Josephine used the word canapés the other day and—I’m a _warrior_ , you know? A mercenary. Andraste’s _mercy_ , I still haven’t even learned to _dance_ —”

“ _That_ I can help you with.”

Adaar stops in their tracks. “Really? You’d… you could teach me to dance?”

“Sure,” Harding shrugs, as if the suggestion was commonplace. Considering her occupation, it might be one of the more normal things she’d say in a day.

“Aren’t we—I mean, aren’t _I_ , a little, well—”

“It’s fine,” Harding says, dismissing their concerns with a wave of her hand. “You can probably imagine there weren’t many other dwarves around when I was younger, and some of the guys around were—well, none were _quite_ as tall you, Your Worship—but I’m used to dancing with a taller partner.”

“I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s a valid concern, and that’s why you’re here, right? Your impeccable practicality! And that glowing thing on your hand, of course.”

From the boundary of the camp set by wards, Adaar can see Dorian trying to draw his eyeliner on properly in the looking glass that he’s making Bull hold for him. If the frustrated huffing of his shoulders is anything to go by, it isn’t going well.

An anxious looking scout hovers a few feet from them, too polite (or too afraid) to interrupt their conversation. Harding nods their way in acknowledgment.  “Anyway, we can practice when you return to Skyhold if you’d like, Your Worship. So try not to get killed out there, eh?” she winks, whizzing away to deal with whatever the scout had needed to bring to her attention.

Adaar doesn’t realise they’re blushing until they join Dorian at the makeshift breakfast table, where he takes one look at them, puts his kohl down on the table, and promptly bursts out laughing.

They reach over the table and punch him in the arm in a futile effort to make him shut up.

He’s still smiling smugly at them when they all finally leave for the day.

* * *

Adaar looks around the room with wide-eyed wonder. They are somewhere deep within the bowels off Skyhold, and even though it looks presentable enough, they are sure that this room hadn’t been part of The Official Skyhold Spruce-Up.

“I could’ve sworn that I’d searched Skyhold from top to bottom…”

“Your Worship?”

“...I’ve never seen this room before in my life.”

“You expect any less from your lead scout?” Harding jests.

“...we really should be giving you a raise.”

“You _may_ want to hold off on that until after we’ve taught you the _Allemande_ … though we may need to be worrying more about the _Sarabande à deux_ …”

“Those sound decidedly Orlesian.”

“Oh yeah,” Harding nods, smiling as she shuts the door behind them. Adaar is still inspecting the room in wide glances, something akin to wonder playing on their smile, and it’s hopelessly endearing. “So, shall we begin?”

* * *

In the whirlwind that was their rise to power, Adaar hadn’t really had reason to worry about _who_ they were—beyond their Qunari heritage. Of course, the majority of those who followed them likely had concerns about their Qunari heritage (never mind that they had never known the Qun, that they were a Vashoth that had lived the life of any other young village child, with added scorn and degradation) but that was something they had lived with since they could remember. It came with the horns, as their mother used to say.

But that was skin deep, and who they were was not limited to their appearance—and it was _certainly_ not limited to what other people had to say about it.

In the field, they are a warrior; as strong as The Iron Bull and almost as built. _That_ is where there grace lies, in controlled swings of the biggest sword they could lay hands on—a warriors grace. It was not that of the Orlesian nobles, of those who have known two-steps since their nursemaids had witnessed them place one foot in front of the other, but that of one brought up to be as soft and kind with words as they were terrifying with teeth bared and weapon drawn.

* * *

“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” Adaar sighs, regretfully dropping their hands to their sides. There was no way that they could match Harding’s movements; their arms wouldn’t follow what their brain was saying, their knees seemed indifferent to the beat in their mind, and they were sure they’d been at it for hours by now.

“Come on, Your Worship, you’re making progress already! I think you’re just stuck in your head—just imagine a beat and follow with your feet!”

“I can’t—I mean, it doesn’t—I mean—it’s not like anyone was going to take me seriously anyway, and I’m sure you have other things to do—”

Harding adopts a tone that Adaar has only ever heard her use on her more unruly comrades (and that Adaar mentally refers to as her _‘I_ will _kick your arse_ ’ voice). " _Inquisitor._ ”

It’s uncomfortably familiar, the type of voice that ma used when they were younger, stuck in their head and clawing at their horns after a day of too many jibes and stares from the villagers. It was equally as scolding as it was placating, and made them feel like that knee-high, chastised kid once again.

“You said that your spymaster and Josephine think that you need to learn, and I agree. You can’t afford to look like you’re out of your element—they’ll eat you alive out there. You’re going to need every weapon you can store in your arsenal. We’re going to teach you to dance, okay?”

Adaar stands in stunned silence for a few seconds, until Harding gently takes their hands in hers once again. It’s intimate and kind, and forces them to ease the tension from bunched up shoulders and near-cramping calves.

“Yes ma’am.”

* * *

Harding has _freckles_.

Adaar has freckles too—their mother used to tell them that the Maker smattered them there to keep the stars within their reach, always. Their ma laughed at the two of them, but spent nights teaching them about constellations all the same.

But Harding’s are less a sparse sprinkling and more a generous dusting, made no less endearing by their quantity. They wonder idly what mother would make of them—and then thinks of how much their mothers would adore Harding in general—and Harding’s eyes are so devastatingly _pretty_ , aren’t they?

The stars shift—she’s laughing, they realise too late, because for the first time they’ve completed the dance. The two of them stand there, Harding nestled in Adaar’s arms, and Adaar has missed it all.

“See, Your Worship? All we had to do was get you out of your head for a little while, and you’re a natural!” Harding beams up at them. “You just need to mind your feet a little, but that’s easy enough to fix.”

Adaar starts to panic as Harding disentangles herself. It’s strange to not be able to remember anything, but it’s even stranger for them to want to hold a warm body to theirs for reasons purely selfish. “I think I might need a few more lessons, I don’t remember any of that!”

“We’ll have plenty of time to practice before you leave for Halamshiral, have no fear, Your Worship.”

“Please don’t call me Your Worship while we’re holding hands—I mean, not like _holding hands_ , holding hands, I— _Andraste’s mercy_ —I—you know—”

Harding laughs, the sound bright as day and warm as campfire, and Adaar is utterly _besotted_ by it. If Harding will laugh like that, they think they can stand being the bumbling fool of a Herald that people believe they are for a little while longer.

At least they will know how to hold their own on the Orlesian court, even if the only person they really wanted to dance with would be stuck elsewhere, ensuring they live to put those skills to a more political use.

* * *

Adaar’s arms hang over the balcony of the Winter Palace. No longer concerned about the opinions of the many celebrating nobles behind them, they had undone the top buttons of their jacket and loosed the belt around their waist. Josephine had come and gone, and now they were free to take an appreciative look at the pinpricks of light dotting the near-abyssal black of the surrounding Orlesian countryside.

They expect that the quiet of the night will remain unbroken, but a voice that they don’t expect cuts through the gentle sway of the music from inside.

“May I have this dance, Inquisitor Adaar?”

Lace Harding, decked out in full Inquisition regalia, stands in the light of the ballroom, arm outstretched and cheeky smirk firm on her face.

“I thought you’d never ask, Lace.”

**Author's Note:**

> I know nothing about dance, but there are an amazing variety of early European dances on YouTube, and I watched quite a few of them to write this! Please feel free to point out anything that is glarlingly obviously wrong, either with my limited dance knowledge or words.
> 
> Turns out I'm bad at writing romance and this turned out as more of a two friends skirting around each other/romantic friendship fic, so... I'm going to say it's as shippy as you want it to be.
> 
> As always, you can find me at cuddlebros.tumblr.com


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